


A Part of Us

by tortuosity



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22125325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/pseuds/tortuosity
Summary: After Leandra's passing, Hawke attempts to carry on her yearly Satinalia tradition with the help of her friends.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 13
Collections: Holiday at the Retreat





	A Part of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mutantenfisch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mutantenfisch/gifts).



> “What we have once enjoyed deeply we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”  
> –Helen Keller

Isabela gently took the pile of mushrooms from Hawke’s hands and set them on the table. “I really don’t think you should try cooking these,” she said.

“Why not?” Hawke said, with a pout so dramatic Varric could see it from across the kitchen. “You don’t have faith in my cooking abilities?”

Gingerly picking one up between her thumb and forefinger—more delicate than Varric had seen her be with actual explosives—Isabela held it out for all to see.

“I have literally killed men with deep mushrooms before. And you know what happens before they die? Shit. Everywhere.” She waved her hands at the floor, the walls, and, most disturbingly, the ceiling. “ _Everywhere_. I don’t know about you, but that’s _not_ how I want to spend my Satinalia.”

And of course (of _course!_ ) all eyes turned to the dwarf. Who else would know about the culinary delights of deep mushrooms? Did it matter that he was born in Kirkwall and had never eaten a damn mushroom in his life? Apparently not.

“Varric,” Hawke said, bless her heart, “don’t dwarves eat these?”

Time to educate the children. “Yeah, but when you live underground, you take what you can get. Pretty sure we’ve got more options than weird glowing fungus.” He wasn’t about to get on his tiptoes to check the counters, though. “Like, I don’t know… carrots?”

As the suggestion came out of his mouth, the inside corners of Hawke’s eyebrows tilted up and her mouth drew tight. It was gone the next moment, glossed over with a smile, but it made something in Varric’s chest clench, just the same. 

That was the thing with grief. You never knew what would set it off.

Aveline, tactful as ever, asked from the other end of the room, “What did your mother make last year?” If she noticed the collective discomfort her question raised, she didn’t show it, her eyes fixed on Hawke.

“Ham. She always makes—” Hawke grimaced, and _then_ Aveline noticed, the tips of her ears going pink with shame. “Made... ham. And mashed turnips, because Father liked them. And carrots, because Carver hated turnips.” Sighing, she turned her head away. “I just wanted to try something different this year,” she said softly.

Ah, there it was. Damn carrots. 

Anders poked one of the mushrooms with his finger. “Well, maybe you could cook them separate from everything else, and put them at the far end of the table, and I’ll be ready to heal anyone brave enough to try them?” That earned him a mix of glares and eyerolls, and he shrugged defensively. “What? It was just a thought.”

Hawke pressed her knuckles to her forehead. “I was really hoping to have a nice quiet dinner without the threat of death or diarrhea,” she said. “It’s fine, we’ll just skip the mushrooms. But that doesn’t leave me with a lot of alternative ideas.” She looked at each of them in turn, desperate. “Doesn’t _anyone_ else know how to cook?”

“Don’t look at me,” Isabela said, laughing. “All my meals come in a tankard.”

“Donnic does the cooking,” Aveline muttered.

Anders looked thoughtful for a moment, but then shook his head. “I have about a hundred ways to cook rat, but that doesn’t seem especially festive.” Judging by the retching noise Hawke made, she didn’t find it especially festive, either.

“I’m afraid I never learned,” said Fenris.

Varric considered it. He had never done much cooking for himself, a necessity only when he ran out of coin or favors to get others to do it for him, a mercifully rare occurrence. But he did learn a few simple dishes when he was a boy, before…

“Nah,” he said, unwilling to rouse sleeping ghosts. “I’m only good at eating.”

Merrill rocked back and forth on her heels, looking fit to explode with excitement. “Well,” she ventured when attention finally fell on her, “If you don’t mind eating Dalish food, there _are_ some things I know how to make. But I understand if you’d rather—”

“Yes,” Hawke interrupted, slumping with relief. “Please. Oh, Merrill, you’re a lifesaver, truly. What do we need?”

“Oh!” Merrill’s face lit up as she began ticking things off on her fingers. “There’s a braised greens dish I’ve always been fond of, or maybe… ooh, edible flowers? Does anyone like those? Or maybe… well, I’ll need to go to Sundermount for it all, anyway.”

“Okay, so we have the pie, and now we have… whatever it is Merrill is going to make.” Hawke frowned and fidgeted with the hem of her shirt while everyone tried not to stare at her. “So. Um…”

After what was either five seconds or five hours of awkward silence, Isabela heaved a mighty sigh and stepped forward.

“I’ve got this,” she said, her hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “Merrill, take that redheaded ogre with you to go pick dandelions or whatever you need to do.” The look Aveline shot her would’ve wilted anyone else, but Isabela was unfazed. “The rest of you lot are on pie duty. What’s in it?”

Hawke tapped her chin and wrinkled her nose, apparently remembering a recipe taught to her years ago. “Hmm… it’s just minced pork, lard, some chopped onion, spices… and the crust, of course, but I can handle that part.”

“Great.” Clearly relishing the authority, Isabela pointed at each of them as she assigned tasks. “Fenris, you can chop everything.” Fenris nodded; no protest there. “Anders, you’re in charge of the fire.”

Anders, of course, couldn’t resist making a fuss. “But I—”

“Shush,” Isabela commanded, clapping her hands together like she was scolding a dog. Anders, successfully shushed, threw his hands up and retreated to the oven. Finally, she turned her captain’s glare to Varric, and he had to fight the urge to fix his posture. “Varric, keep them from killing themselves or each other.”

Wonderful. Babysitter for two men who hated each other, one with a large knife, the other with fire. And Hawke. Who, he had to remind himself, this was all for. This was for her to regain a sense of normalcy, of control—something they were all in desperate need of lately.

“Sure, give me the hardest job,” he said, unable to grouse much with Hawke smiling the way she was. “And what do _you_ get to do, Rivaini? Skip out on the festivities and hit the brothels?”

A wicked grin spread across Isabela’s face. “Mm, that’s an idea…” she mused, and Varric swore her eyes started to glaze over. Eventually, someone coughed, and Isabela blinked a few times, returning to reality. “But no. We need dessert. And if we have dessert, we need wine to go with that dessert. Lucky for you all, I know exactly where to get both of those things.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Hawke said, and Varric didn’t miss the look _that_ elicited on Isabela’s face.

“Ooh, you tease. Have fun!” Isabela called, dashing away before he could confirm if Captain Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas, was _blushing_.

Merrill skipped out soon after, a stone-faced Aveline marching after her. Hawke passed Fenris a few onions and a hefty-looking chef’s knife. “Small pieces, please,” she told him, and he set his jaw, solemnly aligning the blade over an onion, as though Hawke had asked him to execute a prisoner.

The chopping seemed to be going well, so Varric checked on Anders, who was crouched in front of the hearth and making distressed noises.

“You alright there, Blondie?” Varric asked, just as Anders let loose a blistering curse. _So, no_.

“I don’t remember how to make fire,” Anders hissed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Fenris or Hawke hadn’t overheard such an embarrassing admission. “I haven’t had to do it in years, and I’m… I’m a little nervous.”

“You can’t just use flint and steel like the rest of us?”

“No, I can’t. I want to show _him_ ,” and he jutted his chin in Fenris’s direction, “that magic can be useful and safe. Mundane. But if I accidentally burn the house down, that’s—”

“Not really gonna prove your point, yeah. And if you can’t do it at all, that’s just emasculating,” Varric said, and Anders nodded sadly. “Tell you what. What if...” He leaned over to whisper in Anders’s ear, “ _I_ light the fire, and you pretend it was magic. Everybody wins, nobody’s estate gets burned down.”

Anders stared at his outstretched hands, pale and cold. “Fine,” he grunted.

Varric looked behind him. Fenris was busy with his onions, slicing with more care than Varric had ever seen him apply to anything, ensuring each piece was identical. Hawke stood in the corner, already in a cloudy mess of flour. They’d never know.

Snatching the firestarter from where it sat near the oven, Varric scooted next to Anders on the floor. One strike of the steel to the flint and the pile of tinder ignited, the flames quickly licking up the sides of the logs. Magic, Varric decided, was severely overrated.

“Aha!” Anders yelled, far louder than necessary. “There! Magic! Perfectly helpful and not at all dangerous.”

“Yes, because there’s certainly no other possible way to light a fire,” Fenris grumbled, though his voice came out a bit thick.

“Thank you, Anders!” Hawke said, her entire front covered with flour when she turned around. 

While Anders gloated, Varric checked on his other charge. Fenris had a small mountain of minced onions on the counter beside him. More than any pie, no matter how large, would ever require. But he continued to chop, and chop some more, until he paused, set the knife down, and sniffed.

Varric peered up at Fenris. “Are you—”

“No,” he said, even as tears streamed down his face.

“Okay, if you insist. But I’m guessing that’s probably enough onion.”

Fenris scrunched his eyes shut, then opened them, then shut them again, his expression one of intense suffering.

Unsure of what else to do, Varric left Fenris to his misery and walked over to Hawke. She had a large circle of dough in front of her, everything in her corner coated with enough flour to bake at least three loaves of bread.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

Hawke put her rolling pin to the side and wiped a hand across her forehead. There was flour in her hair. “Almost done, I think. Just need to make the top crust. It’ll be ugly, but hopefully tasty.”

“I wasn’t asking about the pie.”

“I know.” She leaned against the counter, weight on her elbows. “It’s… hard. Not having her here.” When she looked at him, he could see she was fighting not to cry. “Does it ever get any easier?”

He remembered it then. Not nearly as sudden and dramatic as Leandra, rather the slow and inevitable descent of a woman unable to recover from familial shame. That question was one he had asked Bartrand a few months after she passed. His brother had no response but a shrug.

But Varric wasn’t him. “It’s gonna be hard for a while. Especially with stuff like this. You’ll be reminded by things you never would have associated with her. Certain smells, or phrases, or,” and he waved a hand around the kitchen, “food. And it’ll sting, every time. Eventually, after a few years, maybe, it’ll start to hurt less. But it never really goes away. Not entirely. I wish it did.”

“Yeah.” Hawke sniffled and cleared her throat. “I hope… I hope we can keep doing this every year,” she said. “I think it’s something she would want.” A tear streaked through the flour dust on her cheek.

She was right. It was something Leandra would want. And it was something Ilsa Tethras would want, too.

—

The pie was indeed ugly. Lopsided and leaking, it made a less than appealing centerpiece for their table. But it _was_ delicious, Varric had to concede—if a bit heavy on the onion. Merrill’s side dishes were equally tasty: a nettle soup, delightfully, bizarrely green, and an array of edible flowers, every color imaginable, like a rainbow on a platter. 

And beside them, in Leandra’s good china—inlaid with the Amell family crest—were roasted turnips and carrots.

Isabela was, much to everyone’s surprise, true to her word, returning to the estate minutes before the food was served, two bottles of wine and a basket of fruits and cheeses clutched to her chest, her hair suspiciously disheveled.

“What?” she had said when inquired of her whereabouts. “I took the scenic route.”

When the hour grew late and their stomachs were near full to bursting, Varric got to his feet, wine glass in hand. “I hope no one minds if the dwarf makes a toast,” he declared, and the conversation around the table quieted.

He looked at his friends: Merrill, biting her lip to keep from giggling at one of Isabela’s ridiculous stories, Aveline next to her, rolling her eyes but hanging on every word. Fenris, never one for conversation but always one for listening, letting Hawke talk his ear off the whole evening. Anders, grateful for a chance to relax, egging Isabela on and trading jokes with everyone—even, on occasion, Fenris. And Hawke, happier than he had seen her in months, forgetting the pain for an evening.

“You know,” he said, and dammit, an anticipatory lump was already starting to form in his throat. “My family never celebrated Satinalia. You measure the passage of time a little differently when you’re underground, so the holidays associated with it aren’t the same as they are up here. Even after they came to the surface, House Tethras, or whatever was left of it, kept the old ways.” He swallowed, trying to keep the waver out of his voice. “But House Tethras is… well, it’s just me now, isn’t it? So the old ways are gone.”

Hawke looked up from her spot at the head of the table, watching him with an expression he couldn’t begin to parse. 

He continued, “All of you… you know, you don’t really look like dwarves, but you’re my family now. Maker knows we sure fight like family, anyway,” he said, and thank Andraste that earned him some laughs, because it was the only thing keeping him from crying. “So, I think… I think it’s time to make some new traditions.” He held his glass up, and shit, he really _was_ going to cry, seeing them all like this.

Isabela raised her cup. “To family,” she said.

Following suit, Aveline lifted hers. “And to Leandra.” 

They clinked glasses, an unknown future ahead. But it was one they would go into together.


End file.
